Brought Down By A Bag
by Adalanta
Summary: What happened when the dye bag burst in Falling? Bosco's thoughts while lying in the hospital after his first panic attack.


Brought Down By A Bag

By Adalanta

Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of Third Watch, NBC, and probably some other people.

Author's Note: I watched "Falling" for the first time last night on A&E and could not go to sleep until this was written. Jason Wiles (who plays Bosco) is such a great actor, but he did a particularly awesome job in that episode. He was mesmerizing. Anyway, this is Bosco's train of thought while lying in the hospital that night after the bank robber, set in the beginning of "Falling." The events mentioned in this story are from the episodes "Impulse," "The Long Guns," and "Superheroes, Part II." 

Please, please, please, take a second to leave a review or you can email me at adalanta14@yahoo.com with your comments. I crave feedback!

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It was the bag.

I was doin' fine until that damn dye bag exploded in my face. Sure, I kinda zoned out for a few seconds, let down my guard just a bit, and let that jag-off get away from me. But nothin's wrong with that, right? After all, I haven't gotten much sleep since Ross – I mean, since the shootout. But that's normal. When you're that close to death, ya get keyed up, and it takes a while to settle down. I just lost my concentration for a little from lack of sleep. That's all it was. Period.

But that bag…that was completely different. It started all this – panic attacks the doctor called 'em. Whatever the hell they are, I wouldn't wish 'em on anyone…except that jag-off of a bank robber. Yeah, maybe him. And Sergeant Christopher.

It happened so fast. One minute, I was chasing the guy into that alley, and the next, I thought I was dyin'. And all because of one small, harmless bag. Funny, huh? The other day I sprinted through a hail of bullets without a scratch, and today I get brought down by a bag. A damn bag!

I remember orderin' the robber to throw down his gun. The guy musta been somewhat scared cause he did it. I guess even bent over, pantin' for air, I musta looked like more than he could handle. Anyway, the jag-off tossed his weapon on the ground, and I remember moving it closer to me, just in case he decided to be stupid and make a jump for it. Lookin' back now, I shoulda picked it up and stuck it in my jacket. Maybe he wouldn't have taken the time to grab it later, I don't know. But I didn't. I left it lyin' there in plain view.

Then, I told him to drop the bag from the bank. The bag. What else could I have said? I did the right thing, I know I did.

He bent down to the ground, still staring me in the face. It's all so perfectly clear – his bald sweaty head, his flushed face frozen in indecision. Every single, tiny detail, etched into my memory, taunting me for my latest failure. He stretched out his arm and tossed the bag right at my feet. And then…

Blood.

Blood everywhere. 

On my face, my hands, my jacket. All I could see was blood.

And then I couldn't breathe. I wanted to. I tried to. I just…couldn't. Not a single, life-giving breath. Nothin'.

The minute that red dye bag burst, I was sent straight to hell. Not the one that everybody thinks about, with the eternal fires and the little red guy holding the pitchfork. No, this hell was inside my mind. It was me. My memories. My mistakes. All me.

I saw the dead, smashed bodies of those poor people who jumped from the Towers. The blood that flew in every direction when they splattered to the pavement.

I saw Glen Hobart lyin' on the roof of his apartment building with half his head blown off from that sniper's bullet. I felt his wet, sticky blood ooze down my face like drops of red rain falling from the sky.

I saw Benny Ross sprawled out on the cold, unforgiving cement behind our RMP, lyin' so still. Too still. He wasn't even breathin'. I tasted the sickening coppery taste of blood as I breathed into his blood smeared mouth, frantically doing CPR. I tried to help him – I did, I swear! – but nothin' worked.

Every single, hideous, bloody memory that existed inside flooded my mind as that red dye blew up in my face.

I don't remember much after that – just snatches of words and vague sensations. Everything got fuzzy and dark, like night was closin' in about me, pressin' down with all its awesome might. And if it's one thing that I've learned in my life, it's that you can't stop the night from comin'. Sure, you can leave on the lights or light a candle. Hell, you can even turn on a flashlight and hold the darkness back for a time. But you're not really stoppin' it. You're just delayin' it. 

Nothin' stops the night from comin'.

I was on the ground, curled up on my side, clutching my chest, tryin' to make my frozen lungs start workin' again. And…I was afraid. Of what was happenin' to me. Of what had happened to me. 

I…I remember hearin' Faith's voice and feelin' her hands on my chest, searchin' for a bullet wound. I tried to tell her what was wrong, but all I could do was gasp frantically for air. I tried again and again, and finally – FINALLY – I got it out.

I heard Sully's voice, then Faith's again. I felt my head bein' lifted and then held firmly in place. I didn't know where I was or who was holdin' me, and I panicked even more. I struggled to get loose. How could I breathe when I was bein' held down? How could I breathe through all that blood? How could I breathe in the dark? How?!

My lungs caught on fire, the raging inferno charcoalin' 'em into ashes, just like that girl we found locked in the trunk of that burned car. Soon, there'd be nothin' left of me but ashes blowin' in the wind, and some poor slob wonderin' absently, "Whatever happened to that Boscorelli kid?" That was my last, clear thought before the darkness took hold.

And then I woke up here in the ER at Mercy, wired up to half a dozen beepin' machines and feelin' like I just ran a freakin' marathon. My body felt heavy…drained. Like a car without any oil, I couldn't seem to make myself move. So I was stuck here, helpless, without any possible way to get out, as the doctor told me what had happened. That I'd had a panic attack. That I was messed up mentally. That I needed counseling. 

No, scratch that. That I needed more counseling. What a laugh! I don't intend on spendin' one more minute in some damn shrink's office.

What for anyway? I'm fine. Really, I'm fine. There's nothin' wrong with me that a little beer and sleep won't cure. I was doin' fine before, and I'll be fine again, just as soon as I get outta here.

There's nothin' wrong with me. I'm fine.

It was just that damn bag.

*FINIS*


End file.
